


Edward Scissorspock

by merisunshine36



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merisunshine36/pseuds/merisunshine36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winona Kirk knew that going up to that big old mansion on the hill was a bad idea. What she didn't know was how much it would change her life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edward Scissorspock

**Author's Note:**

> On my last rewatch of Edward Scissorhands, I saw Johnny Depp embracing Winona Ryder and was filled with a burning need to Trekicize it. Thus, an AU was born.For the purposes of remaining true to the film's eerie sense of being stuck in a suburban timewarp, I haven't set this at a specific point in time, but assume it's way before first contact.  
> I owe all of my thanks and my kidney to my lovely, fantastic, patient beta waldorph. Without her, this fic would be a rotting mess on my hard drive.

Winona Kirk struggled to extract herself from the driver's seat of her tiny sedan. The tailored skirt of her suit forced her knees together in an awkward proximity that made anything like normal movement nearly impossible. She had been sent into the field by her friend Gaila, head of the local Welcome Wagon Committee, with a single directive: find out who was living in the old Pike mansion up on the hill, and report back.

Not for the first time, Winona wished that she had packed up her boys after her husband George died and moved somewhere else. Somewhere shiny and anonymous where she wouldn't find boxes of hair dye tucked into her mailbox because she was going grey about the temples, or have to endure the false sympathy that came each year when her roses withered away every summer. But as a newly widowed single mother, staying had been so much easier than going.

Now she found herself standing in front of an iron gate that was easily three times her size, palms sweaty as she clutched the edges of a casserole dish held out in offering or as a shield, she didn't know which. Winona squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and hoped to God that when she re-opened them, she would find herself somewhere else.

She peeked out from beneath her blonde lashes...and the mansion was still standing quietly in front of her, waiting. "Fuck my life," she muttered, and leaned all of her weight against the handle.

The ease with which the iron gate swung open took her by surprise, causing her to stumble a bit. The owner had passed away over a year ago—wasn't it practically a rule that gates to scary old mansions should be heavy and rusted over from neglect? Winona shifted the casserole to one arm and walked quickly, noting with a pang of jealousy the large, fragrant rosebushes that dotted the winding pathway to the front door. She lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall with a dull thud, only to have the door fall open all by itself.

"Okay Winona, this is the part in the horror movie where you go willingly to meet your doom." She took a steadying breath, and went inside. "Welcome Wagon!" she called, forcing cheer into her voice. "Sorry to just crash the place like this, but I'm just here to, ah, welcome you to the neighborhood."

The living room was nearly empty of furniture but spotless, the hardwood floors sparkling brilliantly wherever the sunlight fell. For years, the old house had been inhabited by retired naval admiral Christopher Pike, a recluse who mostly kept to himself. When he returned from his final tour of duty, the neighbors had fallen over themselves to get to their mailboxes every morning. They each hoped that an invitation to dinner would appear, allowing them to pry the admiral's secrets from him and learn the identity of the second shadow that hovered in the windows every night.

As summer turned to fall and their hopes dried up like crumbling leaves, the neighborhood went on the offensive and attempted to draw him out with invitations to holiday parties and poker nights. Winona had been coerced into sending one herself, and she recalled the sense of relief she'd felt when the bright blue envelope addressed to "Mr. and Mr[s]. Christopher Pike" reappeared in her mail box with the letters 'RTS' scrawled across the front in messy red ink.

The staccato tap of her heels echoed loudly as she made her way up the staircase, and she swallowed past the lump of fear that grew steadily in her chest. The world had seemed so still on that mild evening in May when the old iron gate had swung open to admit the ambulance that carted Pike away. Christine Chapel, who lived next door to Winona and worked as head trauma nurse at Federation County Hospital, reported that he had been dead on arrival. The only instructions he'd left were to cremate the body and ship it off to a cousin in Mojave, California that no one had ever heard of.

"Hello?" Her voice bounced back at her, and for a moment she thought that the youngest children on the block had been right, and that the lights that came on at night and the shadows behind the curtains were certainly the work of a ghost.

She reached the top of a second flight of stairs only slightly winded, and found herself in a large room directly beneath the roof of the house. The only light came from the two large windows along one wall; she could feel the sweat tickling down her back in the oppressive heat. Nearly ready to call her quest a failure and head home, she paused for a moment to set down the casserole dish on the corner of an old desk sitting up against one wall. It was covered with what looked like spare auto parts, neatly arranged according to function and size. On the wall were tacked numerous articles from tabloid rags about spaceship crashes and UFO sightings, the paper yellowed with age.

A rustling noise came from behind her and she spun around, her body tcoiled like a spring and ready to fight, run, or both.

"I'm sorry to just walk in like this...I'm Winona Kirk, the local Welcome Wagon committee member and I...." Her eyes widened as a man emerged slowly from the shadows in a far corner of the room, his face expressionless as he approached her, dark eyes examining her silently. Winona forgot her manners and stared at him openly; she had never seen someone so odd-looking in all her life. He wore a dark knitted tunic and a pair of black trousers, which should have been impossible in the heat. But even more strange were his eyebrows, which darted upwards at an alarming angle, and his ears, pointed like something right out of a fairytale.

Clearly, coming here had been a mistake.

"You know what, maybe it's better if I go, I have to get dinner started and I--"

"Please, do not leave," he said, his voice touched with some odd accent that Winona couldn't place. "I have no intention of causing you harm."

"Your ears," she began, before trailing off. Her fingers traced a vague triangular shape through the air. She itched to touch them. "Who _are_ you?"

He hesitated for a moment. "I am called Spock."

She looked around the empty room, half-expecting more tall, pointy-eared men to appear from beneath the floorboards or somewhere else equally odd. But it was just the two of them, and they stared at each other in silence until Winona began to grow uncomfortable. "Do you live here, Spock? Where are your parents?"

"My parents and I have not been in contact since I left my home on a mission of scientific exploration three point two Earth years ago. I lived under the guardianship of Admiral Christopher Pike until he the time of his death. At present, I am alone."

Winona's shoulders relaxed a little. Here they were thinking that the house was haunted and it was only a boy, and one who couldn't be any older than twenty at that. "Oh hon, you can't stay here by yourself. There's no one to cook for you or take care of you—what if you got sick, what would you do then?"

"I have nowhere else to go. I do not know anyone else." He turned away from her and inspected the pan on the table. "What is this?"

"Oh, it's a… tuna noodle casserole," she finished lamely. "It's supposed to be for you."

He clasped his hands behind his back and examined the dish as if it were some rare and interesting find. "I appreciate the sentiment, Mrs. Kirk, but unfortunately, I am a vegetarian."

"Oh." Winona frowned and checked her watch. Frank would be soon; she couldn't keep standing here wasting time when she needed to start getting dinner on the stove. She should be getting home, but there was something in Spock's face that called out to the mother in her.

"Well, it's not right for you to be up here by yourself like this—why don't you come home with me? We'll get some food into you and then decide what to do from there. I've got two boys, Jim and Sam, I'm sure you'll all get along."

Winona followed Spock's gaze out the window, the rows of perfect houses looking like a colorful gameboard from this height. His eyebrows drew together in thought. "I was told by Admiral Pike that to socialize with the residents of Starfleet Boulevard would be inadvisable at best. "

She took led him to the window, and pointed to a squat little house a few blocks away. "That's my home, right there. The yellow one, although it's kinda hard to tell from all the way up here. You should come down for a while, meet the neighbors. They're not so bad, once you get to know them." She winced a little at her outright lie. "They mean well. Most of the time."

The corner of Spock's mouth twitched. "Mrs. Kirk, I find your suggestion agreeable. I will accompany you to your home in order to better research your society and culture."

Winona's smile faltered a bit. "Wait, what? Really? Well, damn. I mean, darn. I mean, I didn't think you'd actually accept." She'd expected him to smile and politely decline. She would've returned home with a funny story that would run the gossip mill for a few days until the strange house and the strange man inside it were replaced by some newer, more exciting rumor. But to actually bring him home with her...well, what would the neighbors think?

He gave a curt nod, which could have meant 'Sounds wonderful, I'll whip up a batch of my grandmother's brownies to bring along,' or the much more likely option, 'You are not worth my time, please exit the premises before I call the police." The way he just kept staring at her with that blank expression of his made it really hard to tell.

"I apologize if I misinterpreted your invitation, Mrs. Kirk. Despite my studies of your culture, I find that the appropriate usage of humor eludes me."

Was it just her imagination, or did he seem a little upset at the idea that she'd rejected him? "It wasn't a joke, I just, well you know..."

"Then my initial interpretation of your statement was correct?"

"Yes. I mean, I can't-," she broke off, irritated with herself. For once in her life, she was going to do what she wanted, gossips be damned. She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her suit jacket, steeled herself, and looked Spock directly in the eye. "What I mean to say is, yes, Mr. Spock, I would be honored if you came to meet my family."

"Mrs. Kirk, I would be honored to accept."

"Well, then. Let's go."

Winona kept up a steady stream of conversation during the short ride back to the house, but she wouldn't have been able to repeat anything she said to him if she'd tried. Spock sat quietly, scribbling away in a small notebook as she spoke. But Winona was on autopilot during the return trip—key in the ignition, gas, brake, remember to look out for the lawnmower sitting in the middle of the garage because Sam cut the grass today and he never puts it back in its proper place.

Winona wasn't surprised to see five sets of curtains in five different houses peeled back as her neighbors tried to get a better look at her mystery guest as she climbed out of her car. The smell of fresh cut grass hung heavy in the air, and not for the first time, she felt a deep sense of satisfaction in her home. Neatly trimmed postage stamp lawn ran right up to the edge of the cheery yellow house—it wasn't especially big or impressive, but it was hers. Ignoring her neighbors, she put an arm beneath Spock's elbow and leading him through the door like it was prom night and she was his date, despite the fact that he dwarfed her by a foot at least.

"Now Spock, this is the kitchen. You can eat anything you want, but the beer belongs to Frank, my husband. I'd advise against drinking any of it; he'll put your head on a plate." At the sight of his raised eyebrows, she laughed and shook her head. "I don't mean that literally, but really—you're better off not taking chances."

She kicked off her pumps, taking a moment to luxuriate in the feel of the soft carpet beneath her feet, and carried them in one hand as she pointed out each of the rooms in the house.

"Bathroom, master bedroom, and these are the boy's bedrooms."

He carefully examined each of the rooms, and Winona felt like she was being tested. "These rooms are significantly smaller in comparison to those in Admiral Pike's home."

Winona puffed up a bit, defensive about the slight to her house's honor. She'd worked double shifts at the hospital as an x-ray tech to keep this house after George died, sacrificing her sanity and her time with her children, and she'd be damned if anyone was going to insult it.

"Well, I don't know what the admiral told you but this is perfectly acceptable house. Not everyone is a rich war hero, you know."

Spock tilted his head, his confused expression reminding the way her pet dog Garcia used to look at her when she was a girl. "My previous statement has made you upset. That was not my intention. It was merely a factual observation, no more."

Winona felt silly, and tried to laugh it off. "Well, I knew that. Most of the houses in the neighborhood are about this size. Your place is something else."

She watched him process this fact, then make a few more notes in his little book to be filed away for later use. He was a bit scary, if she really thought about it. More like a machine than a person. Winona wondered if he'd done the same thing when he first saw her, if he'd analyzed her like that. What would he have said? Female, past her prime, aggressive but nervous, still carrying that bit of stubborn softness about the middle from when she was carrying Jim, swears too much?

Winona saved the living room for last. She took him towards the mantle, where the family portraits were lined up neatly in a row. "Now this, this is my family, Spock." Her voice was soft, almost reverent as she picked up a small picture no bigger than her hand. It was of herself at a younger age, arm-in-arm with a young man that had a brilliant smile. "This is me with my first husband, George. We were high school sweethearts. But, he died in a car accident on his way to the hospital the night Jim was born."

"I grieve with thee, Mrs. Kirk."

She shook her head, puzzled yet touched at the archaic-sounding sentiment. "It doesn't matter, Spock. It was a long, long time ago."

She said the frame down gently, and moved on to the next. "This is Frank, we got married about twelve years ago. He's with Sam, my eldest, on the day he graduated from high school. He's in college now, but he still lives at home.

Her hand traveled past a number of family portraits taken at the mall down the road, and she frowned at the amount of dust she'd let gather on them. She plucked one from the end of the line and placed it in Spock's hands. "This one is my baby, Jim. He's a senior in high school, but he's already taking courses at the local college. I thought Sam would die when he found out he'd be taking classes alongside his baby brother, but I'm so proud of him."

Whereas Sam took after Winona, Jim looked like a carbon copy of George, right down to the irreverent gleam in his eyes. Sometimes, it hurt Winona to look at him. Spock leaned in to get a closer look and Winona smiled, taking a moment to rest her hand lovingly on the frame. "He's off camping with his friends right now, but you'll meet him soon enough."

When the doorbell rang, Winona was digging through the linen closet trying to find a set of towels for Spock to use that weren't frayed at the edges or splotchily discolored from Frank's overzealous use of bleach. Through the gauzy living room curtains, Winona could see a number of figures clustered on the porch.

"I knew it wouldn't be long before they—look, could you give me a moment to handle this?" Without waiting for a response, she unloaded the towels into Spock's arms and hustled him back down the hallway into the den, hoping that he would occupy himself with Frank's old back issues of _Field and Stream_. There was no way she was letting them get their claws into Spock. She took a moment to check her teeth in the hallway mirror, pat her hair down, and put on her most winning smile.

She hadn't even opened the door all the way before a stream of excited chatter made it to her ears.

"Good afternoon ladies, to what do I owe this honor?"

Gaila, a redheaded woman wearing a tight black sweater that looked like something she'd been poured into, crossed her arms beneath her ample chest and gave Winona a _look_. "Oh Win, now don't be coy. Aren't you going to introduce us to your new guest?"

Winona fixed Gaila with an equally determined stare, resolved not to back down. "Well, he's just arrived and I'm sure he'd like a moment to get settled in--"

"Where's he from?" asked Christine, whose towering blond hairdo stood proudly in defiance of the summer humidity.

Winona pressed her lips together and focused every molecule of her willpower into a glare aimed directly at Christine.

But Christine was a skilled warrior. All she had to do was look disdainfully at Winona from beneath one cool blonde eyebrow, wielding her steely blue gaze like a weapon, and Winona knew she was outmatched.

"I don't really know," she admitted with a sigh. "He's been living up there with the Admiral ever since his parents died. He can't be any older than nineteen or twenty."

"A strapping young man all alone in that creaky old house with no one to keep him company except a lonely old man? Now that's kinky," joked Gaila.

Winona tightened her grip on the doorjamb. Try as she might, she had yet to figure out a way to get rid of Gaila.

"Don't be such a wet rag, Winona," said Christine. "For you to have dragged him all the way down here, there's got to be something else going on."

Christine had always been too perceptive for her own good.

Winona felt wrong, standing here gossiping about the perfectly nice young man currently locked away in her den. But even more than that, she felt excited. She had gone and done what everyone else on Starfleet Boulevard had been afraid to do. "Well, his ears have the most interesting shape. They taper off into these little points."

A slim brown hand went up into the air. It belonged to Nyota Uhura, who was relatively new to the neighborhood, but had managed to integrate herself seamlessly into the patterns of life in their little world. "Wait a minute, Winona. Points?"

"Yes, points." Winona pinched the ends of her ears in order to demonstrate. "You know like an elf, or a fairy, or something."

Nyota raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'll believe that when I see it."

"Well, when is the barbecue, Winona?" asked Gaila.

"Barbecue?" Winona echoed. "What barbecue?"

Gaila smiled, an expression that, although intended to be charming, made Winona take a step backwards. "Yes, dear, I know you're planning on showing your guest some hospitality and introducing him to the neighbors."

The air buzzed with the sounds of their ready agreement.

"Oh, you do think of everything, Gaila, I'll bring my pretzel salad."

"And I have got an ambrosia recipe that is simply to die for."

"Do you know the other day I saw that they are selling a new wine cooler at the supermarket? 'Berry Mango Tango,' I think it's called."

"You know, the fourth of July is just around the corner and it has been some time since you had a picnic, don't you think?"

"But, I hadn't, I was still--," Winona floundered. Only thirty seconds ago, it seemed like the reins of the conversation had been in her hands. Apparently, she'd been mistaken.

"Maybe around five?" Christine suggested.

"I think that sounds wonderful ladies, don't you?" Gaila patted her red curls. "Well, I don't know about you all, but I've got to go start figuring out what to wear. I'll see you at bridge tomorrow, okay?"

On Gaila's signal, they turned as a unit and trooped back down the driveway before drifting off in singles and pairs towards their homes. Winona just stood in the doorway with her mouth hanging slightly open. In that instant, she couldn't have been more stunned if a pack of elephants came parading across her lawn.

"Shit," she hissed, stamping her foot in frustration. "Oh, just—shit."

 

^---^---^

_Pike stumbled down the stairs from his back porch, struggling to simultaneously balance the gun in his left hand and the cane in his right. He had been yanked out of a rare, nightmare-free sleep by an enormous crash coming from outside, and now moved as fast as his broken body would carry him to the source of the sound._

A deep scar was carved into the earth in his backyard, like the largest mole in history had been personally offended by his roses. It ended at the line of oak trees that marked the beginning of the forest bordering his property. One of the younger saplings listed heavily to the right, the victim of a fight with a large vehicle about the size of a tank. Pike swallowed nervously, but readied his weapon and made his way carefully towards the site of the crash.

The air was thick with the tang of smoke and overheated metal. Before he could inspect the vehicle, a hatch sprung open with a hiss and he tensed, waiting for whatever was inside to come at him. Inside were three bodies; the two sitting at the helm were crumpled beyond repair. The third struggled into an upright sitting position and turned to him, eyes wide and glazed with pain. He rasped out something in a language Pike couldn't understand.

"Oh, fucking hell," Pike whispered under his breath. "This can not be good."  


^---^---^

 

Spock combed the archives of his memory in a desperate effort to assess whether the current scenario fell into the category of an "awkward silence." Exactly five point two minutes had passed since the evening meal had commenced, and their pizza dinner was punctuated by a complete and utter lack of speech.

He thought back on the dinners he shared with the admiral, which had their share of thoughtful silences, but only in that they stood in stark contrast to long, involved conversations about Pike's time in the navy and Spock's remembrances of his home planet Vulcan. Perhaps Pike was an anomaly—his experiences with Pike were obviously not enough to constitute a respectable research sample.

It was quite possible, he decided, that all humans ate in silence. He itched to make a record of this observation. His primary motive in leaving the mansion was to better study the human residents of Starfleet Boulevard. But he recalled how Pike had disliked him writing while at the dinner table, and restrained himself.

Satisfied with his conclusion, he decided it would be best to mimic the young human Sam, who appeared to be closest to his own age in terms of physical development. He watched with growing distaste as Sam took the slice of pizza in hand, picked off each of the toppings, and then proceeded to eat the pizza itself. Spock knew that humans occasionally ate with their hands—but Vulcans did not, and the thought of doing so made him somewhat ill.

Frank, who had been eyeing Spock for some time now, was the first to break the silence.

"So, Spock," he began, picking at the mushrooms hidden beneath a layer of gummy cheese, "aren't you gonna eat anything?"

Spock glanced at the forlorn-looking pizza on his plate, then up at Frank again. "I would prefer to use eating utensils."

Winona smiled at him, and Spock felt guilty. He did not want to repay her kindness by insulting any of her traditions, but neither could he ignore his own. After more than three years of being stranded on Earth, they were all he had. "It's okay, Spock. You can eat it with your hands."

"I cannot. It is considered quite rude among my people to eat with one's hands."

Frank snorted, and Winona glared at him. "Don't worry Spock, it's not a problem. I'll just grab you a knife and fork, okay?"

Spock nodded, relieved. "Thank you, Mrs. Kirk."

As soon as Winona had left the room, Spock felt Sam's gaze fall on him. Winona's earlier assessment that Sam resembled her was quite correct. He wore his hair long, secured away from his face with an elastic band. He possessed little in the way of muscle, and the bones in his wrist stood out sharp and angular.

"How'd your ears get that way?" Sam asked, leaning in to get a better look.

Spock reached up a hand to touch the object of Sam's curiosity, recalling Pike's similar fascination with them. "My ears are not unusual, they developed in a normal fashion according to the physiological traits of my people."

Frank laughed. "He talks like a damned encyclopedia. Did you ever try and get them fixed? They have surgeries to repair that kind of thing."

Winona reemerged from the kitchen, fork and knife in hand, a smile on her face. "I'm glad you boys seem to be getting along." Spock began cutting his pizza into small triangles of a size that would allow for maximum ease of ingestion.

"Frank was telling Spock how he could get his ears fixed." Frank narrowed his eyes at Sam, who held his gaze and returned it with a glare of his own.

Winona's smile fell from her face, her expression quickly changing to one of agitation. Spock found her face fascinating. The television programs he had viewed had not prepared him adequately for the wide range of emotional responses in the human female.

"Frank, Spock's ears are fine just the way they are."

Winona's husband gave a long-suffering sigh and wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin. "Win, all I said is that there were places where he could go to make himself look more normal. What's so wrong with that?"

Winona did not argue the point with him, and the table returned to silence as they all continued eating.

"Jim should be here any minute now," she said. Spock determined that this most recent lack of conversation could be categorized as "awkward." He still was not so sure about the first one, however. He would make a point of asking Mrs. Kirk about this at a later date. "He's out camping with his friends, but he said he'd be back in time for dinner tonight.

"I don't know why you put up with that boy being late all the time, Winona. If you let me, I'd set him straight."

"Frank, we are not going to discuss this."

"We're not going to discuss what?" came a voice from the doorway. Three startled faces snapped to attention, and Spock followed their eyes to the source of the sound. He recognized Jim Kirk from the photos Winona had shown him. However, this was not the freshly-scrubbed Jim of his school portrait. He was still unchanged from his camping trip, clad in well-worn jeans covered in mud and other debris.

"Jim," Winona said, laughing a bit breathlessly, "you almost missed dinner again. But I'm glad you're home safe. Spock, this is Jim, I told you about him before, remember?"

Spock nodded a greeting towards him, and Jim's smile only grew wider. Spock felt his heart rate increase, and placed a hand to his side in concern. He had not wanted to insult Mrs. Kirk's choice of meal, but it appeared to be causing the adverse affects on the chemistry of his body due to the high amount of cholesterol and monosodium glutamate in the ingredients. Winona, apparently, shared Admiral Pike's complete disdain for the values of proper nutrient balance in one's diet.

"Sorry, Mom, McCoy got lost on the way back when he insisted on ignoring the directions I gave him." Jim shrugged off his sleeping bag and duffel and let them drop to the floor. Spock anticipated that he would be reprimanded for this action, but he only caught Frank's silent frown. Jim placed a wet, sloppy kiss on his mother's cheek, then settled himself in the chair next to Spock.

"Who's your friend, Sam?" Jim asked, giving Spock the once-over. He slid the entire pizza box towards him and pulled the cheese from one slice before shoving the crust into his mouth all at once.

Spock just stared at him, transfixed. Jim carried himself with an easy grace and confidence that he had glimpsed in the admiral on his better days, when the horrific memories he carried with him slid to the rear of his mind and he would spend hours telling Spock inappropriate jokes of a sexual nature in an attempt to elicit an emotional response.

Sam gestured towards their mother with his pizza crust. He now had a small pile of them on his plate from which he was trying to build some kind of structure that was a poor imitation of a human dwelling. "He's not mine, Jimbo. Klaatu here belongs to Mom."

Jim grinned mischievously. "Good to see that you're finally trading Frank in for a new model. Welcome to the family, Spock."

The undigested food in Spock's stomach felt heavy at the accusation that he would attempt to break the bond between Mrs. Kirk and her chosen mate. "Jim, you are mistaken. I am not--"

Winona cut him off with an abrupt motion of her hand. "Jim, can it, okay? Spock is our guest."

Comprehension dawned on him. "Your previous statement was an attempt at humor?"

Jim snickered and shifted his weight backwards so that the chair rested on its hind two legs, hands tucked behind his head. "Wow. I thought it was bad enough when you took in that squirrel with the broken leg, mom. Where did you find this loser?" Spock frowned. He did not understand the use of the term 'loser' in the colloquial sense, but the traditional denotation of the word did not lead him to think that he had been complimented.

Winona slammed her hand down on the table, the resulting vibration echoing down the table and up into Spock's sensitive fingertips. "Jim, I will not tolerate any more of your mouth, you hear me? He doesn't have anywhere to go, so he'll be staying here for a while."

Three shocked faces swiveled in her direction, but Winona stood her ground. "This is my house, and I make the rules. Spock is our neighbor, and if I say he needs a place to stay for a while, then he's welcome here. And that is _final_."

Spock wondered if he was going to be given a choice in this matter. But after looking at the set of Winona's jaw and the way her fist was clenched around her napkin, he thought it best to remain silent.

 

^---^---^

 

Winona stood staring at the variety of fertilizers she'd accumulated over the years. They sat in a pile at her feet like waiting disciples as she tried to decide on her next move in an ongoing campaign to produce gorgeous, sensually fragrant roses. For the past four years, they'd burst into existence in a riot of color only to fade away soon after, the petals going from crimson to muddy brown in the space of a few weeks.

She'd use the spray this time around, she decided. Or...the powder. Maybe both?

Winona sighed aloud and dragged the back of one hand across her sweaty face, her garden gloves leaving a streak of dirt on her nose. It was yet another perfect day in a long line of perfect days this summer. The sun smirked down at her from its perch in a dazzlingly clear blue sky, and she felt a twinge of guilt for watering her roses at midday when the moisture would surely disappear back into the air as soon as it hit the earth.

_I bet Spock got up every day before sunrise to water Pike's roses_, she thought, remembering the gorgeous blooms she'd seen on the grounds of the old mansion. She considered seeking him out and getting his advice, but she didn't want to bother him. After a week of prodding, she'd finally gotten Jim to invite Spock to whatever contest of adolescent male strength he and Nero had chosen to get involved in that day. From the sounds of the shouts coming from the other side of the house, they were giving the old basketball hoop over the garage a workout.

Exasperated, she twisted the spray fertilizer onto the hose nozzle with a bit more force than was necessary and got to work. She let her mind wander as she drenched the flowers in a liberal dose of chemical-laced motivation until she heard a loud _thump_ come from the other side of the house, followed by the sound of her Jim's voice cursing up a blue streak.

Winona focused on taking deep, calming breaths and tried her best not to think of what she'd have to cut out of the budget this month in order to cover his hospital bills this time around. Jimmy wasn't clumsy, exactly, but the world seemed to have it in for him. He'd been in and out of the hospital so many times that the nurses liked to say that they were going to name a ward in his honor. And they were only half-joking.

She let the hose fall to the ground without bothering to turn the water off, and stripped her gloves from her hands before making her way quickly to the front of the house.

As she expected, Jimmy lay on the ground, his face pale and contorted in obvious pain. His longtime friend Leonard "Bones" McCoy was crouched over him, trying to convince him that trying to stand up was maybe not the best idea at the moment. Three years older than Jim, McCoy had opted to get a GED at sixteen instead of properly finishing high school; he was now second in command at the local mechanic shop which seemed to suit him just fine.

Leaning against the garage looking more sullen than concerned was Jim's boyfriend Nero. Spock sat on the ground a short distance away from him, a paperback book dangling forgotten from his fingers. A flash of anger crossed his face for the briefest moment as his eyes darted back and forth from Nero to McCoy.

_So much for getting him to actually do something with them_, thought Winona, disappointed.

McCoy pushed the dark fringe of his hair away from his eyes, a scowl on his face. "This never would've happened if it weren't for your asshole boyfriend, Jim."

Winona frowned. She wasn't a fan of Nero—the tattoos etched into his face made her skin crawl—but she tried to keep her opinions to herself. Unlike Sam, who came home only to eat and sleep (and sometimes not even that) since the time he started school, Jim kept most people at arm's length. Until Nero showed up, it had mostly been just Jim and Leonard. But had Nero and Jim had taken to each other like oppositely-charged particles, even though they seemed to spend more time giving each other bruises than holding hands or making out or whatever other things they got up to that Winona didn't want to think about.

"Look, McCoy, I don't need any of your shit, okay? It was an accident." Nero pushed his way into McCoy's personal space, his voice a low growl.

Jim leveraged the strength in his abs to pull himself into a sitting position. "Guys, chill. It's not a big deal, okay?"

McCoy snorted, and answered Nero's glare with one of his own, his fist clenched at his side.

"Okay!" Winona said, clapping her hands together. She felt like there was something going on she didn't quite get. The testosterone out here was thick enough to taste, and she needed to diffuse it before she had a situation on her hands. "Nero, Leonard. Scram. I don't have time for this. Spock and I will deal with things here while you go home and get your heads together."

She fixed them with her best Mom Glare until they slunk off, all mumbled apologies and promises to check in on Jim later.

"Jimmy," she said, wincing at the crack her knees gave as she squatted down next to him, "Are you okay?"

He nodded, but the way he was biting down on his lip told her that he was lying. Not to mention that his ankle was already beginning to swell, the skin an angry purplish-red. "Don't worry Mom, I got this. It's nothing, trust me."

"Oh, Jimmy," she sighed, and brushed a hand through his sweaty hair. "What am I gonna do with you, huh? I bet you can't even stand on that."

He scowled at her, the promise of a challenge lighting up his eyes. Jim didn't like being told he couldn't do something. "Of course I can. Watch me."

Jim ignored her protests as he shifted all of his weight on his good leg, then used his arms to push himself off the ground. Time seemed to slow as he wavered back and forth and for a second, Winona thought he would stick the landing. But then he lost his balance again, his eyes going wide as he realized that he was not going to win his battle with gravity this time around.

Winona squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look. She could hear blood pounding in her ears as she waited for the inevitable sound of pain that would signal his fall.

But it never came. She cracked an eyelid open and was relieved to see Spock standing there, an arm wrapped securely around Jim's waist. The book he had been reading had been tossed to the ground, the pages fluttering idly in the breeze.

She released the breath she'd been holding. "Consider yourself lucky that Spock was here to save you from yourself, kiddo." Unrealized fear made the words come out sharper than she had intended.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Stop worrying, I'm _fine_."

Spock raised a single incredulous eyebrow. Winona supposed that her expression mirrored his own.

"Jimmy, I am ignoring you starting now. Spock, keep an eye on him while I run in and grab the keys; you load him up and we'll head to Federation. I'm sure they already have the sheets turned down for you."

It wasn't until she pulled into the hospital parking lot that Winona remembered she had never turned the hose off.

 

^---^----^

 

Spock peered into the open doorway of Jim's bedroom only to find that he had fallen asleep again, this time with one arm dangling off of the edge of the bed and wrinkled sheets pooled at his waist. A book titled _Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus_ lay open across his chest, which rose and fell steadily. He had forgotten to take off his reading glasses again, and the dark plastic rims sat crookedly on his nose, threatening to slide off at any moment.

Jim's entire family had mobilized around him and his severely sprained ankle with an ease that came from going through this ordeal many times before. There appeared to be an unspoken understanding between them that in order to keep him off of it, he needed to be kept occupied. Frank brought up an old television from the basement into his room, Sam picked up his homework assignments, and Winona made a grocery store run for grapefruit juice or yogurt or whatever it was she thought he might need. Even McCoy had volunteered to stop by the library and pick up a stack of books Jim had requested. Nero, on the other hand, was conspicuously absent.

But after breakfast this morning, first Frank, and then Sam had disappeared. Winona was the last to go, begging off because of a bridge party she had scheduled with some friends. She had placed Jim's medication in Spock's hands along with a set of hastily scribbled instructions, then ducked out the door with a quick wave and an excited bounce in her step.

And so Spock found himself alone with Jim. To say that he was a bit anxious would be a tremendous understatement.

He was appalled at the crude nature of Earth's medical practices, which he had been exposed to on the many occasions Pike was blindsided by sudden pain from his old back injury. He would spend the entire day in a drug-induced torpor, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep until the episode passed. While he was asleep, Spock had read each of the little pill containers lined up on the bedside table and committed the possible side effects to memory—nausea, vomiting, dizziness, drowsiness, headache, difficulty breathing, loss of appetite, irregular heartbeat...the list went on. Anxious, he remained at Pike's bedside until he showed signs of improvement, waiting for each heartbeat and each breath, wondering what he would do if they suddenly stopped.

Spock forgot sometimes how relatively delicate humans were, with their sluggish hearts and fragile bones, their unshielded minds.

Although Jim appeared to be a healthy specimen of his race, Spock was reluctant to leave him alone. The poorly crafted poisons that humans called medicine might turn against him at any moment.

He counted silently each time Jim inhaled, exhaled; recorded the relevant information on the little notebook he had taken to carrying with him. Thirty breaths per minute—was that too much? Too little? Fear curled around the edges of his mind. What would he say to Winona, if she returned to find that her son was dead?

"Spock, you know it's kinda creepy when you just stand there and stare at me like that." Jim's voice was thick with sleep.

Spock felt a rush of blood to this face, and fought the urge to drop his gaze. Embarrassment was an unnecessary emotional reaction. He was merely fulfilling his duties as Jim's caretaker.

His charge sat up and put his glasses to rights, the smoky blue of his eyes oddly magnified behind the lenses. He stretched, and his body held the sluggish, uncoordinated movements of someone who has had too much rest.

Logically, Spock knew that he should apologize for the intrusion into Jim's personal space and excuse himself. But instead he hovered in the doorway, uncertain.

"I apologize for waking you."

Jim just shrugged. "You didn't wake me. Besides, I'm already slept what—twelve hours today?"

"Eleven point three two, to be exact." The words left Spock's mouth before he could stop them, and he watched Jim's mouth go a little slack in surprise.

"We need to find you a hobby."

Spock tilted his head, curious as to what Jim was referring to. Of all of the humans he'd met in his admittedly short tenure upon Earth, he found Jim to be the most confusing. Whereas Winona broadcasted her emotions loud and clear for all to see, her son remained guarded, giving away little of himself.

Jim pulled his glasses off and tossed them carelessly aside, then twisted his body in order to lean over the side of bed nearest the wall, busily searching for something. He emerged triumphant, a battered cardboard box in his hands. "Come on, Spock. Pull up a chair."

Jim slid the small tray table that his mother had brought for him in front of the bed, and Spock picked up the desk chair and sat next to it. The little table leaned slightly to the left, and Spock itched to fix it, but instead deliberately placed his hands upon his thighs and waited to see what Jim would do next.

He pulled a battered board out of the box and unfolded it between them, and Spock sat up a bit straighter when he recognized the game.

"Chess. It has been some time since I last played."

Jim rubbed his hands together. "Great. It'll be good to play against someone different. I got tired of beating Bones all the time, and Nero always cheats. Black or white?" He looked up at Spock and smiled, his eyes dark with anticipation.

In response, Spock felt a tightening within him, as if some of the oxygen had been drained from the room and his body was crying out in protest.

From an objective standpoint, Spock knew that Jim was attractive in the eyes of other humans. He acknowledged that McCoy's steadfast loyalty and Nero's demonstrated desire to subdue him hinged upon their subconscious attraction to the near-perfect balance in the proportions of his features, the lean musculature of his body, the confidence in his long-legged stride.

He had not expected that this group would include himself.

Spock ruthlessly put a lid on his emotions, berating himself for the lack of attention he had paid to his mental state. Since his departure from Pike's mansion, the number of hours per week Spock devoted to meditation had fallen off. It was time that he remedy this indiscretion. He was here to observe and record data, that he might one day take it back to Vulcan and disseminate it among his people. Any more than that would be courting disaster.

Jim's eager look had turned to one of concern at Spock's absent expression, the smile fading from his eyes. "You okay, Spock?"

Spock nodded tightly. "I am in good health, Jim."

It was not a lie, not exactly.

Jim looked unsettled, but he continued to set up the board, his fingers settling the pieces in their places quickly and without thought. "I thought you might be upset about the fact that you're going to lose," he said, trying to inject humor into the moment.

His reply was automatic. "It is illogical to express an emotional reaction to the result of a contest of skill. On the contrary, the appropriate response would be to study your opponent's methods in order to improve one's future performance. "

"You keep telling yourself that," Jim replied, his focus narrowed to exclude everything save for the small wooden army laid out before him.

Ordinarily, Spock found that human games of strategy failed in their ambition to translate acts of war to a two-dimensional surface. They lacked all the complexities of a true battle; namely, the ability to move not only forwards and backwards, but upwards and downwards between multiple planes, through land and air and sea—and space. He had considered Pike his intellectual equal—even so, 83.4% of their matches had come out in Spock's favor.

But now, as he watched Jim pick up the tiny pawn carved in blonde wood and place it decisively on the adjacent square, a part of Spock knew that he had already lost.

 

^---^---^

 

It had taken Winona some time to find Spock, but she had finally located him in the garage with Frank, taking furious notes on his little pad while Frank droned on about on fishing lures. She wanted to steal him away so that she could show off her massage room. It was her favorite place in the house, one that had always nurtured whatever creative flight of fancy she found herself on at a given point in time. It had been an office during her brief foray into creative writing and a sewing room after that. It was now the site of her own private massage parlor. She ushered Spock into the massage chair and pushed his face down into the hole in the chair's padded headrest.

"I'm so glad you volunteered for this, Spock." She moved around the room lighting various scented candles, then turned on a CD that filled the room with the chatter of rainforest birds. "I can't ever get any of the boys to sit long enough for me to really get going, and I need to get some more practice in before I go public."

She cracked her knuckles, then hesitated, her hands hovering in the air just behind his head. Truthfully, she'd wanted nothing more than to touch his ears from the moment she saw him. She wondered how they got that way, whether it was by accident of birth or some odd personal choice. But she pushed those thoughts aside and set her hands on his shoulders instead, only to feel him tense up beneath his fingers.

Winona frowned. "What's wrong, Spock?" She was surprised to see the tips of his ears turn a faint green.

"I—I am not accustomed to being touched."

She scoffed and settled him back into the correct position. It was just like a boy his age to be anxious about his body. "Don't worry Spock, I took a six-week course at the Palace de Beauté Massage School. _I_ am a licensed professional, you're in good hands with me."

Winona started with his shoulders, but was soon frustrated by the eerie sensation that she was pushing her fingers into solid rock. She gave a little huff of frustration, and pressed harder. He wasn't making it any easier on her either, she could barely feel him beneath the sweater he wore. Winona had stolen it from Frank's trunk of winter clothing after Spock spent the previous evening shivering on the couch while the family watched TV.

Winona felt her fingers starting to cramp and she sat back, frustrated. "Spock, you're wound up tighter than that awful spiral perm I used to have in high school. What's got you so upset?"

His voice was muffled from where his face was pressed into the headrest. "I am not upset."

She shook her head, amused. Spock may look different and talk funny, but when it came to feelings, he was just as predictable as any other male she'd ever met. "You sound just like Jim after he gets into it with Nero."

Winona moved her hands upwards and began working her fingers into the vertebrae in his neck, and was surprised to feel the dry heat radiating from his skin. "You're burning up—are you sure you're not sick?"

"This is my normal body temperature," Spock replied. He quickly followed with, "Your concern for Jim while he is with Nero is unnecessary. Despite McCoy's assertions to the contrary, Jim's injury was indeed an accident."

Winona stilled. She had been worried since this morning when Jim had gone off with Nero soon after lunch, moving with more ease than he had a right to despite the bandage still wrapped around his ankle. But she had never mentioned her concerns to Spock. "Wait a minute, Spock. I never told you about any of that, as far as you're concerned, Nero and I are best friends."

He turned to face her, the solemn expression in his dark eyes incongruous with the slight flush on his face. "I am a touch telepath. When direct contact is initiated, I am able to perceive some of your thoughts and emotions, as you possess little natural ability to shield your minds."

She looked down at her hands, then at Spock again. She never should have agreed to make that welcome run in the first place, but she did and now she had a mental patient on her hands.

"Spock, please tell me that you're pulling my leg, and that you don't truly believe that you can read my thoughts."

He pulled away from her slightly, insulted. "I would not lie to you."

"You're serious?" Curiosity gnawed at her, and she seized his hand. Her heart was thudding so loud she could hear it in her ears. "What am I thinking right now?"

"You are experiencing a significant degree of excitement, which is mitigated somewhat by your fear of me...you are looking forward, in particular, to the reaction of a woman by the name of Gaila."

She clapped her free hand over her mouth. "Oh, my goodness. Of all the people who had to be in that mansion, Winona, you went and found yourself a damned psychic."

Spock gave a small sigh, and Winona was perversely delighted to see him get upset about something. "Mrs. Kirk, my ability to discern the thoughts of others is not dependent on the reading of "auras" or "vibes". It is a skill genetically inherent in my people."

"Oh, I'm sure it is," she said, content to placate him for now. "Now turn around so I can get back to work." He gave her a wary look, but followed her orders.

"Mrs. Kirk, I would like to make a personal query regarding your opinion on the emotion of love," Spock said, his voice muffled. "Having never experienced it myself in the romantic form, I admit to a significant lack of knowledge on the subject."

Well, that came out of nowhere. "You've never been in love, Spock? Not even once?"

"Among my people, it is considered a highly private matter. Due to certain...biological concerns inherent in the physical manifestation of the mating drive, we do not undertake it lightly."

For him to be so painfully awkward, Winona thought he must be from somewhere in the Midwest, the poor dear. "Sure, it makes you a little crazy and all your logic goes flying out the window, but that's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Have you ever experienced love?"

Winona remembered the day she and George had gotten married, a memory tinged with joy and sadness in equal measure. She remembered the sense of wonder that had unfurled inside her like a tiny flower the first time she held Sam in her arms, and of the cold grip of fear that seized her heart that time she nearly lost Jimmy to a case of appendicitis. And she thought of Frank, who was a bit stern and stuffy, but fiercely protective of his family and loved her so hard he couldn't see straight.

"Yes, Spock," she answered quietly. "I am in love every day of my life."

She could hear the soft scratch, scratch of pen against paper, and wondered where he had been hiding that notebook of his all this time. He was probably writing up a report on her, piles of notes about how she swore too much and sucked at gardening that would be filed under "Kirk, Winona". And here she thought they'd been having a heart to heart. "Despite the fact that it causes you pain?"

"Even then. I've lost people I love before, and it's the worst pain you'll ever feel. When you find someone you love, Spock, hold on tight as you can, you hear me?"

She could practically see the gears in his head turning, cross-filing her statements under "Love" and "Kirk, Winona". She hoped that when the time came, that he would take what she said to heart.

"Does Jim love Nero?" Spock asked.

"Why do you ask?" she countered, curious.

"Your thoughts reveal that you believe Nero is a dangerous person prone to high risk acts, but Jim still prefers to socialize with him. Does this not fall within acceptable behavioral parameters associated with love?"

"Hah!" Winona scoffed. "That's not love, Spock. That's hormones."

"You are referring to the overproduction of testosterone in human adolescent males?"

Winona wrinkled her nose. "You make it sound so clinical." She patted his shoulder to indicate that her work was finished. She wasn't too sure how much progress she'd made, but her hands were surely feeling it. "Anyway, Jim better not be in love with him, because if he is, I'll take Nero out myself."

"Mrs. Kirk, surely you exaggerate."

"Mr. Spock, surely you don't want to test me."

^---^---^

Spock had been searching for Jim for the better part of an hour. He had found the youngest Kirk to be a worthy opponent in the game of chess, forcing Spock to fight for every win. They had spent hours bent over the battered chessboard the previous evening until fatigue and approaching dawn led Jim to call a halt to the game until the next day. It should have been easy to find him in the Kirk's small backyard, but it was currently filled with all of their neighbors due to the picnic Winona was holding, and Spock was painfully aware of how their eyes tracked his movements about the yard.

"Yo, Spock!" Frank pointed at the grill he was tending with a spatula. "Want a hamburger?"

"I do not consume animal flesh, Frank." He had told Frank this thirteen times, yet Frank persisted in asking.

Andrei, a man who Spock knew to be one of Frank's fishing companions, took a sip from his beer. "What red blooded male doesn't eat meat?"

Spock refrained from stating the truth about his blood, which would undoubtedly elicit an emotional reaction that he was quite unprepared to deal with at present.

"Andrei, you'd think that this was kid weird enough with the ears and the mind reading and everything, but that's not the half of it." Frank added a few more burgers to the grill, then leaned towards Tom and said in a loud stage whisper, "I bet you he's never even had sex."

Spock fought to keep his expression neutral It was his experience that humans tired of a conversation subject after an average time period of 3.2 minutes.

"Spock, to ignore your needs as a man is nothing short of a crime." Andrei gestured across the yard to where a slender, curly-haired young man stood with his head buried in a dog-eared volume. "Look, you see my son Pavel over there? He is very lonely, spends all of his time studying mathematics. He is a genius, but has no friends. You should go over there, sit with him for a while, get to know him."

Andrei winked and the two men dissolved into drunken laughter. Spock took the opportunity to make a quick exit.

"Spock!" Winona waved him over to the makeshift massage parlor she had set up in the corner of the yard. A gaggle of women crowded around her in a swirl of perfume and brightly colored dresses. "I'd like to introduce you to the girls. Christine, Nyota, Janice, Ayel, Gaila—this is Spock, our guest."

"Hi, Spock." they chorused. Spock took a step backward.

"Lord God in heaven," said Ayel, "look at his ears! You weren't lying, Janice, it's as if the Devil himself is looking at you." She quickly made the sign of the cross on her chest.

"Now, Ayel, there's no need to be afraid of Spock." said Winona, trying to avoid a fuss.

"Ayel, I said no such thing!" Janice protested, her face a bright red. "Spock is a perfectly harmless young man."

Ayel narrowed her eyes. "Fine, have it your way. But when he drags you screaming into the fires of hell, don't say I didn't warn you!" She stalked out the back gate, black broomstick skirt swishing angrily around her heels.

"You were right, Winona," breathed Christine, "he is something else."

Christine looked like she was about to say more, but was abruptly moved aside by Gaila, wearing a skintight green minidress that left little to the imagination.

"Hi, I'm Gaila. Winona tells us that you're a psychic, aren't you going to give us a little demonstration?"

Spock looked at Winona, who grinned and gave him a thumbs up. Gaila tilted her face towards him expectantly. Behind her, Nyota rolled her eyes. Spock looked out over the mass of humans, hoping that he would see Jim and be able to escape, but he was nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly, he took her hand into his own and focused.

Before he even got a firm hold on her train of thought, he was nearly floored by the overtly sexual nature of her thoughts. He broke away from Gaila before he could embarrass himself, his body hot and cold all over, simultaneously attracted and shocked by what was clearly on offer. A series of rapid blinks was the only concession he allowed himself as he struggled to rein in his reaction.

Gaila smiled at him, her mouth soft and inviting, her eyes full of laughter. "I believe that was the single most titillating experience of my whole life," she said with a wink. "So Spock, what was I thinking?"

Spock shook his head, and stepped backwards. "I apologize, but I can not—I must leave, now." He ignored the collective sound of disappointment at his departure.

He was trying to make sense of this intriguing, if embarrassing, encounter, when a hand seized his upper arm and diverted his course.

"Spockster!" Sam herded him to a picnic table where his girlfriend Aurelan was waiting, a tiny shih-tzu puppy in her arms. "Okay. Do your thing."

He raised a single eyebrow. "My thing?"

"I want you to show Aurelan how you can read minds."

Spock felt somewhat ill, but he gave in to Sam's pleading expression. He made to ask for Aurelan's hand, only to find the dog shoved into his face. It barked, then licked his nose.

"Actually, what would make me really happy is if you'd read Deneva's mind." She flashed a pearly white smile at him.

Spock had never taken the opportunity to initiate mental contact with an Earth animal. Hopeful that this turn out to be a valuable research opportunity, he pressed three fingers to the dog's face, and concentrated.

"He is overheated and wishes the human female would loosen her grip upon him, as the sweet dish he consumed from on top of the picnic table earlier was quite satisfactory upon initial consumption, but now he is quite ill and--," the dog heaved once, twice, and emptied the contents of its stomach onto Spock's shirtfront.

"Ugh." Sam cringed. "Sorry about that." The dog sniffed the mess, then began licking at it.

Spock's eyebrow twitched. Logically, he should not be upset, as the dog intended no malice towards him. Unfortunately for him, he was not feeling very logical at the moment. "Sam, Aurelan, if you will excuse me. My current state necessitates a change in attire."

The silence inside the house was welcome. Spock leaned against the wall of the kitchen for a moment, allowing all of the tension to drain from his mind before peeling the foul-smelling garment over his head and making his way towards the bathroom.

The door was shut, but a series of loud noises drifted out into the hallway.

"Oh, fuck, Nero, I can't--" It was Jim's voice. Spock listened closely, concerned for Jim's welfare. He knew Nero suffered from a severe inability to maintain logical thought processes, and had already proved himself of causing Jim harm, unintentional or otherwise.

"Jim? It is Spock. Are you injured?" The only response was a low groan from the other side of the door, followed by a thump and a yelp of pain.

Spock rapidly came to a decision. He placed a hand on the doorknob and with a swift jerk, yanked it wide open. Unfortunately he overestimated the amount of force required, and found himself standing with the entire door in his hand, the screws from the hinges clattering to the floor.

He was trying to decide what to do with the now useless door when he noticed Jim. Braced against the sink, his shirt was rucked up around his stomach, jeans in a pile at his ankles. Spock followed the dusting of hair on Jim's stomach down to where Nero was busy at work between his thighs, shaved head bobbing up and down. Spock met Jim's eyes, and he was surprised to find not shock, but curiosity and wry amusement. "Oh, fuck. Mom is not gonna be happy about—," the rest of his words dissolved into a choked-off moan and, "Shit, Nero, I'm gonna come."

Spock stood transfixed. He had no vocabulary for the scene in front of him, no established method through which it could be processed or theory against which it might be tested. Pike's library had been stocked with a significant number of medical texts, and he had read each of them many times over. But all of his research had not prepared him for the sight of Jim gripping the porcelain sink beneath his hands so hard his knuckles turned white, or for the wet, sucking sound of Nero's mouth and the heady smell in the air that set him violently on edge. He thought that his studies of human sexual practices had been sufficient. Guanosine triphosphate plus nitric oxide multiplied by sufficient sexual arousal equals cyclic guanosine monophosphate plus increased bloodflow to the corpora cavernosa was something he knew and understood. It was clean, neat, efficient. Logical.

This, was something he didn't recognize at all. This, was something he didn't know he wanted.

"Oh God. Oh man. Fuck," Jim laughed, his posture loose and boneless as he rested against the mirror on the wall. His work complete, Nero stood up and glared at Spock.

"Way to break the door off its hinges, asshole." Dazed, Spock watched him bring the back of his hand to his mouth and wipe a away a glistening drop of moisture before registering the sharp pain of Nero's elbow in his side. Nero's nose curled. "You smell like fucking puke."

Spock held up the soiled sweater as evidence. "Aurelan's dog threw up on me."

Nero rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Out of my way, freak." He pushed roughly past Spock into the hallway. A few seconds later, Spock heard the back door slam shut.

"Jesus, Spock," Jim said, tucking himself back into his boxers and hauling his worn pair of jeans up past sharp pelvic bones and onto his waist. "Learn how to knock next time, will ya?"

"I believed you to be in pain," he offered weakly. "But I see that you are merely attempting to relieve yourself of the additional testosterone your body produces." It was comforting to fall back into the role of scientist, where life was easily categorized, processed, and filed away for later use.

Kirk looked at him oddly. "Right. That's _exactly_ what I was doing." For a moment, Spock expected an accusation to fall from Kirk's lips. He would ask Spock why he hadn't knocked first, why he hadn't waited for an answer.

But he didn't say anything at all, and instead gently removed the door from Spock's hands and settled it against the wall. Jim examined the jagged edges of wood where the screws had come loose. He hadn't bothered to zip his jeans all the way and they rode low on his hips, revealing a series of angry-looking red smudges where Nero's fingers had left their marks on his skin. Spock felt ill.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side, okay?"

Spock's gaze fell on the door. He felt no remorse from his actions, only a deep sense of satisfaction that he had no explanation for. It was morally reprehensible to react this way to wanton destruction, he knew.

"I offer my apologies, Jim. If I am provided with adequate tools, I assure you that I will be able to repair it."

Jim rubbed his bottom lip thoughtfully, the movement slow and easy due to the post-orgasmic haze of endorphins running through his veins.

"Ah, whatever. We've seen worse. There was this time a couple years back when Sam and I got into it—I aimed for his face but he ducked and I ended up with a fistful of drywall." He flexed his hand, remembering. "Tricky bastard. I broke three fingers that day."

Spock was confused. Humans were usually quick to anger, and yet Jim seemed not to care at all about what had just happened. Spock tried to explain himself further. "I only wished to provide assistance. I regret if my actions have caused discord between the yourself and Nero."

"Well, it wasn't a conventional ending to a romantic interlude, but he'll get over it."

Jim, who treated life as if it were one big joke, was a puzzle that Spock was determined to solve.

And there was no mystery that could not be solved with sufficient data at hand. He pulled out his notebook from his back pocket, awkwardly trying to balance it in one hand and the foul-smelling sweater in the other.

"Jim, I have a personal query to ask of you."

Jim scratched his stomach absentmindedly and wandered off down the hall towards the laundry room, a slight limp still noticeable in his walk. "Sure, I guess."

"Are you in love with Nero?"

Jim pulled up short, causing Spock to nearly run into him. He caught himself on Jim's shoulder, and he couldn't help put think how cool and fragile he was. "What do you mean, am I in love with him?" He plucked the soiled garment from Spock's hand and threw it into the washer, followed by more laundry detergent than was strictly necessary. Spock took advantage of the fact that both of his hands were free to note that Jim seemed irritated by the question.

"Your mother and I were attempting to ascertain the nature of love, and she informed me that among the symptoms of this—condition, were the tendency to engage in acts that were otherwise not in accordance with one's personality traits." Jim was silent for a long time as he led Spock back into the kitchen, when he turned abruptly and snatched the notebook from Spock's hand, his stance confrontational.

"How would you know what my 'personality traits' are anyway? A few chess matches every now and then doesn't mean you know me." Jim tossed the little book onto the table, and instead focused his attention on the contents of the kitchen cupboards. "I take my fun where I can get it."

He thought of the growing amount of data he had on James Tiberius Kirk, and wanted to argue that point. Spock knew that he was halfway through college while his agemates struggled to grasp the basics of trigonometry. Jim always slept on his back, and was allergic to strawberries, and his face would light up with a practically childish glee whenever a motorcycle crossed his line of vision. He never wore his glasses when Nero was around, but didn't care if it was McCoy.

Jim pulled open the refrigerator door and peered inside. "You know Spock, you don't look so hot. What were you up to out there, anyway?"

He recognized the comment as Jim's offering of an easy out from their previous topic of conversation. "The artificial temperature controls in your home result in a temperature that is below what I consider ideal."

Jim's head appeared above the door, dirty blonde hair sticking up in multiple directions, his mouth soft with laughter. "Jesus, Spock. When did you learn English, the eighteenth century? I'm not talking about the temperature, I'm talking about you, buddy. You look out of sorts, off-kilter, green about the gills. You know, sick."

Spock's stomach lurched slightly as he remembered how he spent his afternoon. "Your neighbors hold a significant level of interest in my telepathic abilities. I was called upon to perform several demonstrations, severely depleting my body's energy reserves."

He pulled out a beer from Frank's stash, then held a finger to his lips to indicate secrecy. "Maybe I'll let you poke around in my head one day. But for now, we've got a chess match to finish."

Spock felt something in his chest loosen—he thought Jim had forgotten. "That would be agreeable."

"Sweet," Jim replied with a grin. "I'm ready to wipe the floor with your ass."

This morning, he had looked forward to finishing the match with Jim. Why, then, did it no longer seem as if it was enough?

 

^---^---^

 

_Pike awoke abruptly to find Spock standing over him, glass of water in one hand and a bottle of sleeping pills in the other. _

"You were screaming again, sir."

Pike scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Spock. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Although I regret the interruption of my REM sleep cycle, I do not find it an inconvenience to provide you with assistance." A pause. "I find it fascinating that your human emotions govern you to the point that they disturb your sleep as well."

Pike had let Spock meld with him once. He had shown him see the day when his ship went down and took most of his crew with it. Spock left afterward without a word. Pike had let him alone when he found Spock out back staring blankly at the makeshift graves of Syresh and T'Van, his two companions that had died in the crash. Spock spent the rest of the day out back with his shuttle, tinkering with the wiring and making notes in one of his little books.

He claimed it wasn't an emotional response. Pike insisted it was. They agreed not to discuss the matter further.

"Well, Spock, I find it fascinating that your people keep everything so bottled up without killing each other."

Spock raised a single eyebrow, but did not contest Pike's point. "Admiral Pike, I should like to meet other humans. I would like to learn if their lives are also governed by a moral code that similarly prizes devotion to emotion over logic."

Pike swallowed the last of the water and then knocked back the sleeping pill, his movements angry, abrupt. "Spock, we've discussed this before. You're better off here, son. They're not ready for you down there. Not yet."

 

^---^---^

 

Winona lay sprawled on one of the picnic benches, her face turned up to catch the rays of the fading sun. Sam had gone off somewhere with Aurelan, and Spock and Jim were holed up inside, working on their umpteenth round of chess. Which left her and Frank with the exciting job of cleaning up after the party guests.

A shadow fell across her vision, and she opened her eyes to see Frank standing over her. She sat up and moved over so that he had room to sit.

"What do you think are odds we get them out here to help us out?"

Winona snorted. "About the same as my getting this stupid massage business of the ground."

Frank gave her thigh a reassuring squeeze. "Hey kid, don't knock yourself. Keep working at it, you'll get there."

Winona allowed herself to settle into the warm solid shape of him, and thought again that she had made the right choice with Frank. He was nothing at all like George—he played it safe in the moments when George would have been reckless, was short and plain-looking where George had shone bright as the sun. But in the same way she knew she would never love him the way she loved George, she also knew that Frank would never leave her.

"You know, I need to apologize to Spock."

"Whatever for?" she asked absentmindedly, watching a rogue paper plate tumble across the grass in the wind.

"I had a few too many earlier today, and me and Andrei may have said a few things that were inappropriate."

Winona pulled away from him, an expression of dismay on her face. "Frank, we talked about this. You can't keep harassing him. I told you, he's sensitive."

"I know, I know. It was weird having him around at first, but now I'm used to it. Hell, I'd even go so far as to say that I like the kid."

"Then stop tormenting him, hmm?"

"It's just—the kid has got to grow a backbone at some point. The world is not like that little castle he grew up in. He's got to learn to give back some of his own, especially if he's going to start hanging around Jim and his punk friends."

"I thought I was the only one who was worried about that," admitted Winona with a sigh. She'd be lying if she said that her boys were on the best of terms with Frank. His staid nature ran directly at odds to both their genetically-programmed desire for adventure and rebellion. But Frank did his best to keep an eye on them, and often did better than she gave him credit for.

"That Nero kid is hell on wheels. I keep thinking that any day now the cops are going to show up on our doorstep with a warrant for Jim's arrest."

"Frank, don't say that."

"What?" he scratched at the back of his neck. "You think I don't know that kid gets around? If you want, I....I could talk to his father, you know."

Winona shook her head. "I don't think that'll be necessary. Jim's got a good head on his shoulders, Frank."

"I know that, Win, but I also remember what it was like to be his age. I know his head's in the right place, but the question is, will it stay there when it really matters?"

"His father was that way. I just don't know what to do with him, most of the time."

"Well, it's good having Spock around. Hopefully he'll learn to cool his heels a bit."

Winona thought back to the little chat she'd had with Spock. It was probably easier for him to talk when he didn't have to face her, when he could pretend that she was an anonymous source of information like the stacks of books he kept checking out of the public library.

"Winona, did you ever wonder if," and here Winona noticed his face turning a slight shade of red, "did you ever wonder if Jim, well Jim and Spock, if they--"

Winona followed his train of thought and wound up at the same destination. "I admit that it may have crossed my mind."

Frank shifted in his seat. "I don't know how I feel about that, Win. I mean, the other day I was watching the game, and he comes out and starts _ folding his underwear_ in the middle of the living room. In _thirds_."

"Well, why don't we just wait and see how things play out?"

Winona wanted could see that Frank wanted to argue, and so she waited.

"He's a good kid and all Win, but…he just doesn't belong here."

So maybe Frank was right, a little. But wasn't that the point of being young, to do things you might end up regretting?

"That may be true, babe, but how about we just leave the teenage problems to the teenagers for once?"

And before he could argue any further, she cut him off with a kiss.

 

^---^---^

 

"What's the verdict, Bones?" Spock tightened his grip on the van he was currently holding off of the ground. He watched Jim drop to the ground and shimmy underneath to get a better look at the underbelly of Nero's battered old van. A second pair of legs sticking out from beneath the van belonged to Bones, who had been persuaded to offer his services as a mechanic in exchange for a bottle of bourbon. Spock often wondered how Kirk was able to procure so much alcohol despite being a good four years younger than the legal limit, but thought it better if he didn't ask.

Nero squatted next to the vehicle, his face drawn into a scowl. McCoy slid out from beneath the rusting hunk of metal, his face covered in grease. "You can set her down again, Spock."

Spock gently set the vehicle on the ground, then stared distastefully at his hands. McCoy pulled out a greasy rag from his pocket and handed it to Spock, who only succeeded in smearing the dirt around his hands even more. He stared at the stains in distaste.

"Why don't you go inside and clean up, Spock?" suggested Jim. "I think we're done here."

Spock wanted to seize upon the opportunity and retreat inside with his notes and his books. But he had recently decided to double his efforts to assimilate himself into the social fabric of his age group, and that unfortunately meant maintaining a small amount of dirt somewhere on his person at all times. Mrs. Kirk had not been at all happy with the new habits he'd picked up, but Spock counted her unhappiness as a necessary loss for the sake of science.

Besides, Jim required his assistance.

Spock stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I am fine, Jim."

Jim raised an eyebrow, his expression slightly incredulous. "Fine, Spock. It's your call."

"You're damn right we're done here," said McCoy, stuffing the rag back into his pocket. "The only thing this heap of bolts is good for is the junkyard."

The light disappeared from Jim's eyes, his mouth tightening in disappointment. "There goes that road trip we were planning."

McCoy scowled. "What do you expect me to do? I'm a mechanic, not a miracle worker."

Nero leaned against the side of the van, then hooked a finger into the belt loop of Jim's jeans and pulled him closer. "You know Jim, there's always that other plan we talked about...."

Jim looked up sharply, the expression on his face dark. "Nero, _no_."

Nero's thumb traced idle patterns into the pale skin at Jim's waist. Unbidden, Spock thought of the last time he saw Nero with his hands on Jim, and the way his mouth had fallen open, his head tipped back with pleasure. His fists tightened at his sides.

McCoy just rolled his eyes and began putting his tools away.

"Come on, Jim," Nero protested, "where's your sense of justice? Your sense of adventure?"

"What's your boy talking about, Jim?" asked McCoy.

Before Jim could open his mouth, Nero launched into an explanation. "Well, my mother, she has this necklace. _Had_ this necklace. Real nice, all rubies, worth a mint. But she loaned it to this neighbor of ours, who never gave it back. So I figure, if I go and get it back for her, that my mother may be feeling generous and you know, want to give me a little reward."

This was possibly one of the most foolish plans Spock had ever heard. "Nero, your plan is most illogical. Would it not be easier to simply ask the woman to return the necklace in question?"

Nero gave him a dirty look. "What, you don't think I tried that already? The only way we're going to get this is if we take it."

Jim pushed away from the van, wiping his hands on the back of his pants. "You know what, Nero? I think I have some studying I need to do. I'll see you around, okay?"

Spock was more than a little bit surprised when Jim pried Nero's hands away from him and headed for the house, tension radiating from every line of his body. Nero turned to kick at one of the tires of the van, scowling.

Nero was lying. Spock knew this. But he had also seen Jim up late at night in his room after he'd finished all of the reading his coursework demanded of him, poring over maps and guidebooks in anticipation of this trip. More than once he'd fallen asleep on top of them, and Spock would carefully pull them from beneath Jim's ink-stained fingers, fold them, and stack them neatly before slipping back into his own room.

It was what Jim wanted.

"I can assist you, Nero." Clearly, his near-constant association with so many humans had clouded his logic. From the corner of his eye he saw Jim go still, then turn around slowly.

Nero grinned, the expression making the tattoos on his face shift and stretch. He threw an arm around Spock's shoulders, who worked hard not to cringe. "Really now, Spock? You'd help your old buddy Nero out like that?"

Jim returned to the van in three quick strides. "Spock," he said earnestly, "you can't do this."

Spock shrugged out from beneath Nero's arm. He needed to know if he was making the right decision, and beyond asking him directly, there was only one way to do this. There was a dirty smudge on Jim's right cheek, and Spock licked his thumb like he'd mothers do with their children before brushing it across the rough surface of Jim's skin. Jim flinched at the contact, but it was enough to feel the brush of his thoughts, both anxious and amused, but more than anything, fiercely hopeful.

"What was that about?" Jim asked, his eyebrow raised in question. They never spoke of it aloud, but even as neighbors and children showed up at their doorstep daily begging for Spock to do his bit of magic on them, Jim had never allowed himself to be touched.

"There was a mark on your face, I wished to remove it. I have seen your mother employ the method in question, and surmised that it should be equally effective should I attempt it." Spock hoped they would not see through to the true intent of his actions.

Jim shook his head, for once without a witty reply. "Thanks, but only moms do that, okay? It's like a rule or something."

"I know that this is not required of me, but I wish to assist you. My superior strength should make gaining access to the building a simple task." Spock waited for Jim's response, half-hoping that he would shake his head and laugh and call the entire thing off.

McCoy slammed his toolbox shut. "Well I think you're all a bunch of idiots, so I'm going home to catch the rest of the game."

They all watched McCoy head back to his house with quick, angry strides. Jim exhaled noisily. "Fine. Fine, let's do this."

Nero whooped, punching a fist in the air.

 

* * * 

Nero's van coughed and died two blocks from their destination. They got out and walked rest of the way, the uncomfortably cool night air signaling the oncoming fall reaching right through the thin black sweater Spock was wearing. Jim kept casting frequent, wary looks in his direction, but when Spock made an inquiry, he only gave a muttered excuse and pulled away, much to Spock's disappointment.

The events of the past few weeks blurred together in his memory, faces and names circling again and again and always coming back to Jim. Jim, who was a walking contradiction, pushing past his defenses each time he shook Spock awake in the middle of the night to play chess or mull over a complex integral equation only to retreat the next day, leading Spock to believe that any perception of attraction between them was merely a figment of his imagination.

Spock had a new-found respect for his father—who knew it would be so difficult to navigate the paths of the human mind.

When they rounded the corner, Spock knew the house they were approaching was Nero's residence. He had walked past it a number of times, even spotting Jim on his way out the door once, disheveled with his shirt buttoned the wrong way. Jim had not noticed him.

Spock recognized his behavior for the madness it was, and yet he insisted on disguising it as science. Over the weeks, he had amassed dozens of files, heaps of data on this emotional drive that led one to abandon their greatest desires in pursuit of happiness without guarantee. Case #12-1957, Grayson, Amanda. His mother. She left her entire planet behind for a man who claimed to come from the stars and promised to love her forever. Case #18-8914, Pike, Christopher, who suffered permanent nerve damage in his bid to save the lives of his crewmen when his ship, the _USS Enterprise_, was attacked by pirates. Young Pavel Chekov hated mathematics, but continued his studies of the subject to appease his father. Kirk, Winona, abandoned a promising career in engineering after the death of her husband in order to raise her two children.

Spock braced himself against the solid oak of the front door, and with one hard shove, knocked it from its hinges.

The world around him was silent for a moment, then exploded in a chorus of alarms.

^---^---^

Winona had been waiting in the police station for three hours. Three hours, or six tiny paper cups of water and two boxes worth of tissues shredded in nervousness. She didn't cry, she was too upset for that. Tears were for lost husbands and dead puppies on Disney movies, neither of which fit into this current category of events.

This? This was just stupidity.

She felt Frank hovering behind her, and for some reason his constant attention irritated her. She pointed at him accusingly.

"This is all your fault, you know. You knew Jim and those stupid friends of his were doing things to Spock, you knew it and you did nothing to stop it."

Frank just scrubbed a weary hand over his face, and sat down heavily in one of the metal chairs in the waiting area. When he heard that Spock had been arrested for breaking and entering, he had driven directly to the station from work. Winona looked at him in his wrinkled, tired-looking suit, and felt a wash of guilt come over her. She collapsed into the chair next to him.

"I'm sorry, Frank. I didn't mean to say all that. I'm sorry. I'm just upset." she crossed her legs, uncrossed them, and began chewing on her nails, a nervous tic that she hadn't indulged in decades. "You know whose fault this really is? It's mine. I never should have brought him down here in the first place, I should have left him up there. He was perfectly happy by himself up there, and I had to go and fuck it all up."

Her bout of self-recrimination was interrupted by the arrival of a police officer. The friendly expression on his face spoke of good news, and Winona held onto her hope a bit tighter.

"Are you Winona Kirk? I'm Officer Robau." He shook both their hands. "That kid of yours got lucky. He's got a clean record—in fact, he's got no record at all—and since he didn't get away with anything either, the family's decided not to press charges. They're letting him off with a warning this time, but you can bet they won't be so kind the second time around."

Winona felt weak with relief. Robau led them into a small room, empty save for a single chair in which Spock sat, hands folded in his lap. "They're still processing the paperwork, but as soon as that's done, he's free to go."

Winona squatted down so that she could see his face beneath the bill of the baseball cap he wore.

"Oh Spock, I can't imagine what made you do this. Was it something I said? Did we ever do something to make you feel unwelcome?" Spock didn't respond.

Frank stood behind her, shaking his head. "You're lucky they're letting you off with just a warning, you know. People go to jail for life for this kind of stuff."

"I know you meant well, but what in the world were you trying to break into Nero's house for? Was it money, Spock? Stealing is not the way to get money—stealing is not the way to get anything."

"Kid, did someone put you up to this?" Frank asked, putting a hand on Spock's shoulder.

Spock compressed his mouth into a tight line, and looked away from them.

Frank buried his hand in his pockets once again. "I'm going to kill Jim when I get my hands on him."

"Jim bears no responsibility for this," Spock said quietly. Winona blinked, a little shocked that they had gotten him to say anything at all. "It is my fault. It was an experiment, and it has failed."

Understanding dawned slowly on Winona. Well, shit. Spock had gone and fallen in love. She couldn't say that she was all that surprised.

"Babe, don't you know that Jim likes you just fine the way you are? I can't sleep half the time for all the noise you two make with those late night girl talks of yours. You don't have to go committing crimes to get him to notice you."

He made a small noise of frustration. "I am not a child—I am well versed on the consequences associated with transgression of the law."

She gave him a motherly kiss on the cheek, and was careful to think as hard as she could of reassurance, and warmth, and love. It may have been her imagination, but she would swear that she saw some of the tension in his shoulders dissipate.

"Come on Spock, " Frank said, "let's go home."

The scene outside the station wasn't much better, and Winona's jaw hardened when she saw the neighbors gathered outside the entrance waiting for the accused to emerge. The only thing missing from the scene was pitchforks and torches.

Ayel pointed angrily at Spock, her voice high and shrill. "I warned you, I warned you all and you just laughed in my face. The mark of Satan is on this creature and now he has revealed his true self to you."

Gaila shook her head. "I always knew something was wrong with him. Those filthy images he put in my mind....it's no surprise he turned out to be some kind of deviant."

Nyota put a hand on Winona's arm. "Now Win, we know this wasn't your fault, you couldn't have known that he had criminal tendencies..."

Winona pointedly extracted her arm and stared them all down. "Spock is innocent, and nothing you all have to say will convince me otherwise. Now, if you'll excuse us, I have to get home to make dinner."

 

^---^---^

 

Spock was idle, listless. Frank was out shoveling snow, Jim was outside somewhere getting into trouble with Nero and McCoy, and the fact that it was December now meant that there wasn't much for him to do outside in the way of lifting or hauling, either. For a while, he had occupied himself by repairing the short in the electrical cord of Winona's toaster, but now that was done and the remainder of the day stretched long and empty before him.

He had thought about going back to the mansion, afterward. Back to waiting for some signal from Vulcan that he'd be able to return, that he could leave this all behind. But instead he stayed, despite the fact that Jim was more distant than ever.

Winona had attempted to organize a number of get-togethers, but no one would return her calls. It was much the same whenever they went out—everyone refused to look them in the eye, or suddenly found somewhere else they needed to be.

Spock gathered the chess set and went to Sam's room.

"Sam, would you be interested in a game of chess?"

Sam shook his head and stuffed his wallet into his back pocket before peering closely at his reflection in the mirror.

"Nah, Spock. I don't think so." He pulled a pair of tiny scissors from his desk and began snipping the hairs in his nose.

"Is there a reason you have declined my offer?"

"It's boring. I'm tired of always losing." Sam shrugged, then wiped his nose and winked at his reflection. "Besides, Aurelan wants me to go the movies with her." He grabbed his coat and put it on as he headed for the door, shouting his farewells to his mother as he left.

Spock stared at the door for some time after Sam left. The more he tried to integrate himself into this world, the more it tried to shut him out. He was pulled from his reverie by the distinct sound of Winona's stocking-clad feet as they moved down the hall.

"Spock, you're just the person I was looking for." Her smile warmed him, but she seemed sad, a perplexing phenomenon often referred to in novels as, 'her smile didn't reach her eyes'. Perhaps a thorough cataloging and examination of the human smile would be his next project. "I've noticed you haven't been with Jim as much lately."

Spock didn't want to talk about Jim. He tried to change the subject. "Mrs. Kirk, due to the attendance levels of your last three scheduled social events, I have calculated the odds of your annual holiday party being a success at less than 8.3%. It would be advisable to issue a cancellation."

Winona shook her head and led him to the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. "It's difficult to explain, Spock. I know things haven't been going well, but we having to keep trying. It'll all pass over in time." She smiled at him, then sat on the couch and held out her hand. "I want to show you something, Spock. A memory of mine."

He shook his head slightly. "In order to access memories, I would need to initiate a true mind meld with you."

"Whatever you want, Spock. I trust you." Her eyes fluttered shut, long lashes soft against her cheek. "I want you to see this."

In such close proximity he could see the strands of silver in her hair and the web of fine wrinkles around her eyes. She wasn't much older than his thirty-five years, but her human genetics had already begun to betray her.

"I do not know what I am looking for," he admitted.

"I want you to find...the night that Jimmy was born."

He placed three fingers on her face, and was surprised to find that he was not immediately able to find the correct points. Her memories slid around the edges of his mind, close but always out of reach, like the faint blue outline of veins beneath her skin. Spock took a deep breath, forcing his frustration down and away, and ghosted his fingers down and across until the link snapped into place with a sudden, mind-bending clarity.

_Winona lay wrung out and exhausted on the hospital bed, her hair clinging to her face in sticky strands, the last contraction still ringing painfully through her bones. _

"Someone call my husband," she demanded, pulling on the sleeve of the nurse who came to check her pulse. "Someone get me a phone so I can call George. He should be here." She hated how her voice sounded, small and choked with tears.

The nurse took sympathy on her and placed the headset in Winona's hand, who called out a number for her to dial. She held her breath as the phone rang, the telephone cord stretched tight across her belly.

"George, where are you?"

"I'm on my way, baby. I'm on my way."

"Our baby's coming, I need you here."

"Don't worry, 'Nona. I'll be there." She could feel herself growing calmer at the sound of his voice. "What do you think we should name him?"

"Well, we sure as hell aren't naming him after your father."

George laughed, the sound relaxed and easy. "Let's name him after yours, then. We'll call him Jim."

Winona could hear the sound of a train coming in the background. "George, are you at the railroad tracks? Be careful, you know it's slippery out there--"

She almost dropped the phone as a horrific crash came over the phone line, followed by George's screams and the screech of twisting metal.

"George!" Silence. "George, where are you?" The nurse pried the phone from her hands. "No, you have to give it back to me, something happened to George, something's gone wrong...."  
Spock pulled away from her mind, shaken. He felt moisture trickling down his face, and put a hand to his cheek only to find a sparkling, clear fluid there.

"My face is wet," he observed. "Fascinating."

Winona huffed out a shaky laugh. "You're crying, Spock. Of course your face is wet."

"It appears that I am. It is understandable, as emotional transference is a side effect of a mind meld." He wiped the offending moisture onto his pants.

Her expression grew serious, and she took both of his hands in his. "Spock, I want you to be sure to put what I showed you into your notebooks, okay? Write that down, and don't forget."

Spock's eyebrows drew together a fraction of an inch. His experiment had been a failure, and he had arranged his notebooks and papers carefully before putting them away in a box. He would take them back to Vulcan, perhaps they would be of use to someone else one day. "I have collected sufficient data for my purposes, Mrs. Kirk. But I thank you for sharing your thoughts with me."

"Don't wait, Spock." He felt the press of her hands tighten against his, could feel her anxiety telegraphing clear as day. "Don't wait for Jim to come around. If you want him, you better make it happen. Do you understand?"

Spock was at a loss. Not even with the admiral had he been expected to speak of his feelings so freely, to lay his emotions bare for anyone to see. "Mrs. Kirk, I have made a number of attempts to gain his favor. None have been successful."

"If you love him, Spock, you have to _tell_ him."

He shook his head. "I do not know how."

"You'll figure it out. You're too smart not to." Her eyes went to the picture of George on the mantel. "Every day I wish that I had one last chance to tell him I that I loved him."

Spock watched as she wiped her eyes and put her smile back on. Jim, he realized, had learned this from her. "Well, that's enough of being maudlin; we have to finish decorating for the holiday party." She stood and straightened the festive red dress she wore, then handed Spock one of two cans that had been sitting on the end table.

"Calcium carbonate, isobutane, propane, sorbitan tristearate," he read aloud. "What is the purpose of this chemical compound?"

"Way to take the romance out of everything." She led him to the window. "It's spray snow. Here, watch. You just put some in the corners, like this, and if you're feeling really ambitious," she began to make a series of wobbly circles, "you can even make a snowman...or something like one, anyway."

Spock looked out the window, then down at the can in his hand. "What is the purpose of using artificial snow on the window when at present, there is sufficient snow on the ground outside?"

Winona rolled her eyes. "It's supposed to be _fun_, Spock. I'm going to tackle the kitchen, but I'm leaving the living room up to you, okay? I expect a masterpiece."

He began with a single window pane, first making a few trial marks in a corner to determine the amount of force necessary to generate a stream of "snow" of the desired width. Then he painstakingly began to create an image of a snowflake, angle by angle, until the window was filled with his art.

Unexpected, a face appeared in the window, causing Spock to leave a large blotch of snow in the middle of the windowpane.

"Hey, Spock!" Jim tapped on the window, his breath clouding the glass. "That's a nice looking snowflake you've got there. But even better would be if you gave up on that and hung out with me."

Jim's appearance was, of course, less than ideal. "But I promised your mother I would--"

"The windows will wait, Spock. Come and entertain me, I'm bored."

He set the can of spray snow down and went to retrieve his coat, a cumbersome affair that unfortunately, was the only garment he could find to provide him with sufficient warmth in the winter months. Spock stepped outside and shuddered at the sudden drop in temperature.

Jim was sitting on the porch steps, waiting for him, the collar of his coat pulled up around his ears.

"I do not understand why you insist that we socialize outside of the house, as the environmental conditions are less than optimal," said Spock, leaving as much space as possible between the two of them. The easy camaraderie he had experienced with Jim until now had disappeared, leaving what Spock now knew with absolute certainty to be an awkward silence in its wake. "Will you not assist your mother in her preparations for the holiday party?"

"No, why should I? It's not like anyone is going to come." They watched a small sparrow hop across the snow in the yard in search of food. Jim stretched his legs out in front of him and Spock copied him out of habit, only to feel irritation at himself afterward and promptly refold his legs once more. "Sorry about what happened with the necklace and everything. Nero had this stupid idea that we would get the necklace, sell it, and use the money to get that bike I wanted. I should have told you that it was Nero's house."

Spock was annoyed. Humans seemed to believe that frequency of emotional displays was directly proportional to one's intelligence. "I knew that it was Nero's house."

Jim looked up, confused. "Then why'd you do it?'

Spock considered Jim for a long moment. He had missed Jim in the last few weeks more than he was ready to admit.

"Because you asked me to."

Jim huffed, his mouth softening into a guilty pout. "Well, that's dumb." He ripped a sprig of leaves from one of the boxwood shrubs planted next to the porch, causing a small shower of snow to land in his hair and eyelashes. Spock buried his hands deeper into his pockets in order to keep himself from reaching out to brush it away. It would be illogical to do so, he told himself, not in the least due to the fact that it was 33 degrees Fahrenheit outside and he had no gloves on.

"Where is Nero?" Spock asked. "I assumed he would be with you today."

"Out back sucking up to Frank and helping him clean the snow off the car. Why?"

"I assumed that, given a preference, you would opt to spend time with him."

Jim shrugged. "He's not my keeper. I'll hang out with whoever I want."

Spock's head hurt with the acrobatics it was forced to perform in order to divine Jim's true intent.   
Winona had been correct, he concluded. He could not wait for Jim to realize how Spock felt about him.

"Jim, to date we have played exactly 137 games of chess, a game which I find childishly simple in its two-dimensional approach to strategy. I have abandoned my place of residence in order to spend time with you. I have committed crimes on your behalf, incurring not insignificant danger to myself.

He paused for air, and when Jim did not respond, plowed onwards. "I abandoned my personal principles and beliefs, including the adoption of an appalling lack of personal grooming which you seem to favor. I do not traditionally engage in hyperbole, but if I did, I would state that there currently is more dirt beneath my fingernails than in the entirety of your mother's garden. I have demonstrated sacrifice, loyalty, and compromise as the necessary prerequisites for a romantic relationship as established through my research, and yet I have repeatedly failed to receive the desired outcome."

"Yeah, I know Spock. I get it, okay?"

Spock could not have been more shocked if Jim had began speaking in Vulcan. "You were aware of my intentions?"

"It was kind of obvious, Spock. You did my integral calculus homework for me in fifteen minutes that time I had the flu," he said, shaking his head. "And then you threw every game of chess we played for the next week."

"I believed that winning would provide a beneficial psychosomatic effect leading to your early recovery."

Jim just shook his head, and Spock suddenly felt ill. If Jim had been aware of his desired outcome from the beginning, then that could only mean that--

"You do not return my affections, then." his voice was small, lost.

The right side of Jim's mouth turned up a little bit, and Spock felt that he could no longer look at him. He had just revealed his emotions, a most un-Vulcan thing to do, and JIm's response was to laugh. He stared at the space between his feet, trying to will away the gnawing pain in his stomach, only to register through layers of goose down that Jim's body was now pressed close to his.

"Of course I do," said Jim.

Spock looked up, his eyebrows drawn down in confusion. "But I do not understand. You never gave any indication that my assessment of our relationship was correct."

"What did you expect me to do?" Jim asked. "You basically dropped out of the sky, sweet-talked my mom with that innocent act of yours and all of a sudden you're living in my house, pulling doors off hinges and _reading people's minds_?

Jim got to his feet again, and Spock felt colder than before. He leaned against the porch railing, kicking at it with his scuffed sneakers. "I don't even know if you're human—what if I let you touch me and, I don't know, my dick falls off? How was I supposed to know you weren't going to kill us all in our sleep, or that you weren't just going to...disappear?"

If McCoy were here, Spock thought, he would hit Jim on the back of his head and tell him to stop talking out of his ass. Spock was not McCoy, but he realized that it was time to alter his course trajectory.

"Jim, I would find it most agreeable if you would allow me to kiss you."

Jim turned slowly so that his back was to the yard, a smirk of disbelief on his face. "Okay, then. Do it." Jim moved towards Spock until their toes were touching, and Spock could hear each one of Jim's low, steady breaths.

Spock blinked. This was all happening much faster than he had anticipated. He leaned in tentatively and his heart immediately picked up speed at the feeling of Jim's cool mouth against his, testing and checking to see what caused that little hitch in his breathing, what would make Jim bury his fingers deeper into the short hairs at the back of Spock's neck. Jim moaned a little and caught Spock's bottom lip between sharp white teeth, causing Spock's mind to dissolve into a pool of smell and touch and sound.

"I have never kissed anyone before," confessed Spock, his breath coming in sharp little pants which prohibited sufficient oxygen from finding its way to his brain. He wove slightly on his feet, and Jim put a hand on his back to steady him. "I find your thoughts to be—singularly distracting."

"I like to think of myself as a singular kind of guy," Jim replied, and worked the zipper down on Spock's coat. Spock recoiled at the rush of cold air, which was just as quickly replaced by the solid press of Jim's body against his. "I can't believe they don't kiss where you come from."

Spock pulled back, his thoughts spinning away in all directions like shards f a glass vessel that had been smashed against the floor. "We have no need of it. As touch telepaths, the highest concentration of nerve endings are located in our hands."

"So it's fingers with you," Jim said, his expression thoughtful. "Not exactly what I would call kinky, but I'll take it."

Spock's fingers traced the structure of bones in Jim's face, moving over the curve of his ear and the sharp angle of his jawline, only to have Jim catch them in his mouth, the moist pressure of his tongue roaming over each digit. The air left his lungs in a fantastic rush as the world narrowed to a single point of focus. An electric shudder ran down his spine terminating somewhere in his stomach, and he was forced to take deep breaths, marshaling all of his shaky will, in order to keep himself from peeling Jim's clothing from his body and claiming him right there.

Spock rested his forehead against Jim's, the current of his thoughts a comfortable low hum in the background. "I am glad of you, t'hy'la," he whispered, and felt his face go hot at the emotions stirred up by that single sentiment.

"I don't know what that means," murmured Jim as his mouth moved down Spock's neck, "but you're not so bad yourself."

Spock slid his hands under the hem of the short leather jacket Jim wore and beneath his shirt, spreading his long fingers flat against the muscle that clenched in anticipation. He thought of how beautiful all that pale skin would be if he held Jim hard enough to bruise, writing out his claim onto every inch of him. But he would have to be careful, so careful not to hurt him. He wanted more of Jim, more than he was allowed while they were standing on his mother's front porch, but he didn't have the words to say it. Instead, he just kissed Jim again, pressing close so that he could feel the hard length of him, warm and insistent against his thigh. Jim's hips jerked forward, a choked noise coming from the back of his throat.

They could leave together, Spock thought in desperation. They could return to the mansion and wait together for a transmission to arrive from Vulcan announcing the ship that would bring them home. He would be brilliant amidst the other minds at the Academy—challenged for once, his intellect would be sculpted and honed to a fine edge. And as T'Kuht hung low in sky each night, he would lose himself in the arch of Jim's spine and the curve of his mouth, never and always, touching and touched.

It was perfect.

It was illogical.

"Hey!" a shout came from somewhere to the left of them, and Spock felt his head clear suddenly at the sound of Nero's voice. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Jim tried to put himself between Spock and Nero, but Spock's hand was still tangled in his shirt, which slowed things down considerably. They managed to separate themselves and Nero grabbed Jim by his collar, pushing him roughly backwards.

"I can't believe you let him do that to you," he hissed. "What's your problem?"

Spock hesitated. He knew that he could end this relatively quickly.

"Nero, back off, okay?" said Jim

"Oh, so you're best friends now?" Nero laughed. "It sure didn't look that way when you were setting him up to take the fall for our little adventure."

Jim shook his head, his voice tight with anger. "It wasn't my idea, you know I didn't want to do it."

"Yeah, but you did, didn't you?" The seductive menace of Nero's slow drawl made Spock want to break each of his fingers. Slowly.

Jim chewed on his bottom lip and looked down guiltily.

"You know what, Nero? I don't have to discuss this with you. So just leave, okay?"

"Fine. I'm gone." Nero backed away from Jim. Spock was so surprised that the matter had resolved itself that he was unprepared for when Nero hauled back and planted his fist in the middle of Spock's face, causing him to fall backwards down the few steps and land on his back in the snow.

Spock gasped for air, trying to work past the pain of having the wind knocked out of him and the shock of the sudden cold. Nero managed to get in a second blow, and Spock felt pain blooming across the right side of his face.

He dimly registered Jim yelling at Nero, as he tried to pull them apart. The moment of distraction was enough for Spock to roll them over again and use his advantage get his hands around Nero's throat. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered meaningless words about _control_ and _stop_ but he just squeezed tighter, enjoying the fear in Nero's eyes and his weak attempts to disengage.

"Spock, you're gonna kill him!" Jim yelled, pulling on his shoulders. He brushed Jim away easily, and without thought. The sound of sirens grew louder in the distance; someone must have called the police. "Spock, you have to let him go, the cops are coming. Please, Spock. Please."

Startled back into reality by the sheer desperation in Jim's voice, Spock stood up and stumbled away from Nero, who curled into a fetal position and lay wheezing on the ground. His senses returned to him gradually, and as the adrenaline-fueled anger dissipated, he became aware of the large quantity of snow melting its way down the back of his shirt.

He took a step towards Jim, who backed away from him. "What was that about? You can't just go around choking people to death whenever they piss you off!"

Spock would do anything Jim asked if it meant that he could erase the fear from his eyes. "I had sufficient cause to believe he intended to cause you harm."

The police sirens grew louder in the distance. Jim tried to push him in the direction of the old mansion but Spock stood his ground. Jim would not get rid of him so easily. "You gotta get out of here, Spock."

Spock shook his head. He wouldn't leave him, it was too soon. "I will not leave you, Jim."

Jim grabbed Spock and yanked him forward by the lapels of his coat, so close that all he could see was the blue of his eyes. "You knew this day was coming, Spock. They'll destroy you if you stay."

Spock shook his head, his eyes shut tight against the fact that all he had so carefully worked for was now crumbling around him. "I will not accept this as a conclusion. I have completed all of the necessary requisites for--"

Jim shut him up with a kiss that was slow and sweet, the sense of longing coming off him in waves. When they parted, Jim's voice was uncertain. "I didn't say it before, but I'm saying it now, so I hope you're fucking listening. You did everything right, your experiment worked. I fell in love with you, get it? And now, I'm telling you to get out of here."

Spock felt something break deep inside him. He looked up to see the police car as it turned the corner; its headlights bathing the houses down the street in a wash of red and blue.

"I must show you something," said Spock, and Jim's eyes narrowed at the seriousness in his voice. He placed his fingers against the meld points on Jim's face, and this time his fingers were unerring and sure. He focused on his memories of his home planet, a place light years away from Earth with dry air and desert sunsets and towering structures carved into the cliffs. When he pulled away, Jim's eyes were wide with shock.

"I always wondered..." Jim's voice trailed off as his eyes tracked upwards to the stars.

Spock's mouth turned up slightly at the edges. "James Kirk, that is my home planet, Vulcan. I must return there now, but I intend to find you again."

"I'll hold you to that, you know." Jim reached for Spock's hand and squeezed it tightly within is own. Spock pulled back until only their first two fingers were touching. He did not have time for it now, but one day, he would teach him. He would teach Jim everything.

"I would expect nothing less."

^---^---^

_Pike and Spock stood side by side, tired and covered in grease. Two years of painstaking labor and a not insignificant amount of money later, they had just finished the final repairs to the shuttle. It still wouldn't run, but the hope was that they'd be able to transmit a message back to Spock's home planet. _

Pike looked at him expectantly. "Well, what are you waiting for, kid? You made it this far, let's put her to the test, get you back home."

Spock ducked down into the entryway and took a seat in front of the shuttle console. He hesitated. "This shuttlecraft was designed with metals unknown on Earth. The statistical likelihood that they will react unfavorably with the parts we have used in our repairs is approximately 73.8%."

"They told me I'd never walk again, and you see me standing here now, don't you?"

The console lit up on the first try, responding quickly to Spock's voice as if it had been waiting patiently for his return the entire time.

Looks like you'll be heading home soon, kid."

Pike clapped Spock on the shoulder in excitement, the crow's feet at the corner's of his eyes turning upwards as he laughed. But the expression on his face was quickly replaced with one of pain, his muscles giving out on him, his body crumpling against the side of the shuttle. Spock scrambled out of the hatch and peered into Pike's face, only to find that his body had gone completely still, his face frozen in a mask of shock.

A faint chime came from the ship's console. "Message transmission initiated. Scheduled arrival, 187.4 days."  


 

^---^---^

 

**One Year Later**

Winona tiptoed down the hallway on a return trip from the bathroom, regretting that last cup of coffee she'd had before bed. She'd been up all night filling out all the forms that would make her Winona Averill. Her new name. Frank's name. He'd insisted that it wasn't necessary; that he'd love her regardless of what her name was. But for a while now she'd felt like the name Kirk didn't quite fit her anymore, like it was an old comfortable sweater that she'd grown out of. Besides, it was better to do it now, before she started the process of applying to the bank for a small business loan to open up a little massage practice in the strip mall down the road. So she'd made the rounds this afternoon to all the necessary government offices, and had spent the evening filling everything out. It was good to be moving forward in life. But she'd be lying if she said it didn't feel like she was betraying George, just a little.

Things had gone back to normal once Spock left, the rumors surrounding his disappearance ushered unceremoniously out the back door when a woman named Jocelyn showed up on Leonard McCoy's doorstep with a little girl in tow, claiming that he was her father. That kept the bridge clubs in plenty of gossip for three months at least.

She'd almost convinced herself that Spock never existed at one point, until she stumbled upon a box full of his notes one day while cleaning out the guest bedroom closet.

It had been right on top, and looked just like she'd expected it to. "Case 23-1974; Kirk, Winona", written in his neat, precise handwriting. She thought about taking a look but decided against it, thinking that it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. So she tucked it in between two old photo albums on her bookshelf, then put the rest of the box on top of Jimmy's desk and forgot about it.

In the days immediately after Spock's disappearance, Jimmy had spent his time moping around the entrance to the grounds of the Pike mansion, trying to find a way past the gate that was now shut tight. When the old building went on the market, however, he gave up. Now he spent most of his free time with Leonard and his little girl, having given up on Nero entirely.

Winona had almost made it back to her bedroom when she noticed a light coming from beneath Jim's door. She turned the handle and peeked inside, expecting to find him sprawled bonelessly across his bed beneath a pile of calculus problems, fast asleep.

Instead, he was parked in front of his desk, feet propped up on top of the box of files she had given him. A number of them were strewn across his desk.

"Sorry, oops. I didn't mean to bother you."

But Jim just waved her in, tossing the file on top of the others. Winona thought she could make out the name "Amanda" on the front, but then again, her eyes weren't what they used to be.

"Hey mom, you mind if I ask you a question?"

Winona crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway, expectant. It wasn't often that her nineteen-year old son asked her for advice. "Go on ahead, kiddo. Shoot."

"What are your thoughts on...space travel?"

^---^---^

 

_"You know that place between sleep and awake?   
That place where you still remember dreaming?  
That's where I'll always love you…that's where I'll be waiting."   
-Hook_


End file.
